


midwinter fireworks

by shanyuan



Series: the worlds we traverse [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Enemies to Friends, Established Friendship, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Light Angst, Mixed Emotions, Mutual Pining, Nemesio Alberto Can't Catch a Fucking Break, OC Nyo!South Italy, OC Quezon City, Rare Pairings, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28007694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanyuan/pseuds/shanyuan
Summary: Nemesio Alberto doesn't want anything to do with his soulmate—Chiara understands, but that didn't mean she was the same.
Relationships: Nyo!South Italy | Chiara Irene Vargas/Quezon City | Nemesio Alberto Légazpi
Series: the worlds we traverse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051337
Kudos: 1





	midwinter fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for the ooc-ness <3  
> credits to aysel for her baby boy nemo; and to yumi for her chihuahua chiara! >:3

The day he had his first dream, Nemesio Alberto almost rolled his eyes to the back of his skull because of its blatant stupidity. He was seven years old.

It was brief—unsatisfying, above all else. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, and quite frankly, the lone mark on his wrist had been haunting him for fifteen years already, calling out for him in desperate volumes. He despised it. He despised a lot of things, especially things that were never in his favor, things that brought more harm than good, but he decided then and there that he despised this the most. 

He was twenty-two years old, but he only had one soulmate mark embedded on the front of his wrist, which he was honestly grateful for considering that he was sure he'd tear his hair out in frustration if ever a second dream popped up.

Nemo couldn't remember even the most distinct feature of the person in his dream; were they tall? Short? What color was their hair? People typically asked him questions like those, almost as if they were expecting him to suddenly remember in the middle of conversation—and afterwards, they'd act as if he was in the wrong for bluntly calling them a ”huge fucking shithead,” but, really, were they not aware of how stupid they sounded? 

The world would have to be crumbling into imperceptible pieces for Nemesio Alberto to pursue and track down his soulmate actively, or even for him to just give them a minute of his time.

Now, Christmas and New Year's Eve have both come to pass; but the chill that the midwinter air brought upon the city was still extremely cold. It was January 2nd—everyone in the Légazpi household was exhausted by the amount of preparations they had to go through in order to let their not-so-traditional version of _medya noche_ go by swimmingly. Nemo cooked, of course, and although he liked cooking (for a select few), he felt strangely coerced to do so this year, because Eliseo and Hayden decided to join him at the last minute; claiming that their sister, Analyn, suggested that the three should prepare the feast together, as it would be a great bonding opportunity for them, but he knew right off the bat that this wasn't a good idea—so he opposed to it greatly, even going as far as nearly kicking them out of his domain, but to no avail. As a result, the kitchen that day looked more like a chaotic warzone than it was a comfortable family experience. And instead of holiday cheer, the sound of incessant screaming resounded inside the house. Nemo's definitely not going to do that again. 

“So, ate Chesa and her soulmate are getting along well, huh?” 

Upon entering the living room inside the Légazpi siblings' shared house, Nemo grimaces when he hears that wretched term. His enthusiastic older sister meeting her soulmate, Nicholas, wasn't news to him, though—in fact, he was probably the first person she confided in upon first seeing him that night, three months ago. However, that doesn't stop him from expressing his disgust by groaning loudly, loud enough to make his brothers flinch in surprise.

In less than a few seconds, two pairs of eyes were plastered intently at him—belonging to none other than Julian and Eliseo.

“Well, hello to you too, Nemo.” With a phone in one hand, and an I.D. in the other, Nemesio could only assume that the latter had just gotten home from work. Julian, on the other hand, looked quite comfortable on the couch—if it weren't for the visible marks on their wall calendar, Nemo would have forgotten about the fact that Julian took a vacation leave, and was making the most of it by properly resting (and binge-watching his cheesy korean novelas—but he doesn't want to get into that).

He shrugs off Eliseo's greeting by raising his middle finger, soon whistling a tune under his breath to further irritate the said male by his nonchalance, proving to be successful, mainly because of the blooming sourness in his expression. Julian watches the two of them cautiously.

“Gods, it's been nearly three damn months. You're still hung up over that shit?” He pops open the first few buttons of his dress shirt, his hands running through his hair to untangle the knots. “Chesa's not even gushing about that blondie every five seconds anymore.”

When his brother Eliseo sends him a menacing glare, he dusts it off like it's nothing. Which is true.

“Glad to know you're still as bitter as ever,” after replying to Nemo, the aforementioned male deflates on the cushion, tossing his I.D. towards the coffee table situated in the center of the room. As a result, the oldest of the three of them directs a knowing glance at Eliseo, seemingly urging him telepathically to avoid leaving his things around carelessly.

Nemo shudders when Eliseo _magically_ takes his item back, stuffing it into his pocket. If he didn't literally grow up with Julian, he would immediately assume that he was some sort of stupid witch, or something.

“It's not called being bitter, dumbass. It's the truth.” Promptly, he flicks Eliseo's ear when he walks past him.

“Well, I think maybe you're bitter over the fact that you haven't met _your_ soulmate, Nemo.” Eliseo teases, adding a snicker to the ends of his statement.

That struck a nerve.

“You seem to be under the impression that I give a shit about what you think, Eliseo.” He plops down on the couch, far away from Julian, indifference weighing on his shoulder. “I don't actually _care,_ so—shut the fuck up, maybe?”

“Alright, break it up already. Eliseo, go sleep in your room. 'Berto, you should go cool down.”

With a quick shrug, the former bounces off his seat, stalking up the stairs to finally submerge himself with slumber. Julian, being the endearing older brother that he was, lets a heavy sigh escape the chambers of his lips. For a while, he closes his eyes, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose lightly as distress noticeably bubbles up in his previously calm exterior.

“Fuck off, Juleng. I'm going out anyway.” Wordlessly, Nemesio trudges to one of the drawers by the staircase, pulling out the top one swiftly; soon, he picks up the keys to one of the two cars outside, tossing it around his hand boredly.

“What? To where?” Julian picks up the newspaper from the coffee table, switching on the lamp beside the couch he was sitting on.

“Chesa's asking me to buy something for tonight's surprise birthday party for that idiot soulmate of hers.”

Curious stare, slumped shoulders, Julian tilts his head to the side as he talks. “Alone?” After so, he lets his eyes wander to the contents of today's paper, skimming through the headlines normally.

“You ask too many questions,” walking towards the shoe rack, Nemesio has a semi-permanent snarl on his expression, tugging on a pair of dark socks and choosing the most suitable pair of kicks that would be able to withstand the white snow on the concrete. The floor echoes with a _thud_ when he drops the piece of footwear, lacing it properly once it was settled.

The remnants of the brief sense of peace slip away from Nemo's fingertips, clicking his tongue in annoyance upon registering the sound of Julian's voice.

“So, Chiara?”

Sharp glare—sharper tongue. Nemesio walks to exit the house.

 _“Fuck off._ I'm taking the car. Enjoy what's left of your vacation. Or not. Actually, I hope you don't.”

“Mhm, lock the door when you leave. Don't be late to the party.”

He lingers beside the door frame, his heart beating rapidly against the frames of his chest. When he turns away, he mutters a reply, uncertain if it was directed at Julian or himself.

“Whatever. I don't care.”

* * *

The drive to Chiara Irene Vargas' apartment building was painstakingly slow. He almost let himself go way over the speed limit, just for the sake of seeing his unconventional friend and getting this errand over with, once and for all. He curses inwardly at himself soon after when he realizes that he forgot his gloves at home.

Chesa asked him to buy fireworks. _Fireworks._ During the second day of January. He knew from a mile away that looking for a vendor that still had them in stock right after the onslaught of New Year was going to be a pain in the ass; but be that as it may, he was too much of a good brother to her to ever give up. She looked hopeful when she asked for his help—he didn't necessarily want to disappoint, much to his dismay. 

He didn't know what urged Chiara to accompany him, though. The said female messaged him yesterday, hastily telling him that she was going to tag along with his little errand, whether Nemesio approved or not—she didn't give two fucks. He wasn't entirely against the idea, but for the most part, she expressed her dislike for his company multiple times, always bickering with him about the little things up until the line between playful banters and actual arguments were blurred out. In retrospect, he was always finding ways to provoke her, whether it was unintentional or not was completely out of the question—irrelevant.

He'd never admit it, but he had unfortunately grown fond of the way Chiara's eyebrows creased almost instinctively when she was fuming at him—or at anything, really.

He shakes his head dismissively at himself.

Chesa met Nicholas way back during the first week of October; in a party hosted in the Cīrulis-Cīrule household, the night Nemesio pissed Chiara off _so much_ she ended up stomping her way back to her apartment instead of pestering him to drive her back. He hollered with laughter when he drove right past her in the sidewalks of the streets, her face a bright crimson, fuming out of anger (she said it was the alcohol, he didn't believe her), almost matching the red leaves lying idly on the stone pavement; and if the two of them haven't been friends for over two years already, then Nemesio was absolutely sure that he would have left her walking the remaining eight kilometers. But, in the end, he told her to hop in his front seat anyway; and angry, although Chiara was, she ended up doing just that.

He snickers to himself disappointedly when his thoughts drift off to Chiara again, but he doesn't read into it; soon placing one-hand on the steering wheel, the other supporting his tilted head.

Nemesio was wary around Chiara when they met—but, then again, he was cautious around everyone. Her swift retorts and apathetic scoffs were eerily _familiar_ to him, so he heightened his walls, and left her out. He'd seize each opportunity to argue with the female, waiting for the time she exploded with rage. Perhaps it was pride, or something similar to that, because she never conceded, even during the fights that she was obviously going to lose. 

Just that once, Nemesio Alberto made an exception, and let himself reluctantly indulge in the uncomforting comfort of her presence.

January 2nd. The sun was hiding behind a vast layer of clouds when he arrived at the parking lot of Chiara's apartment building.

“You really took your fucking time, huh?” The door beside the passenger's seat opens and closes with a reassuring click, and inside the premises of his vehicle, was Chiara Irene Vargas in her usual enraged exterior.

“You're in no room to complain. You're the one who insisted on coming along, idiot.” After so, Chiara visibly huffs, extending the cuffs of her sleeves until they enveloped the entirety of her gloved hands. Nemesio takes that as a sign to adjust the air conditioner inside his car, the temperature soon rising, juxtaposing the harsh wave of the winter breeze outside.

“A heads up would have been nice. Bastard. I almost froze while waiting for you outside.”

“Fuck that. I didn't even tell you to wait for me outside!”

“It's not like you would have texted me once you arrived!”

“Not my problem, now, is it?”

The air around them was never boring, nor was it empty. The vestige of their insults hung around the tension needily, tones fluctuating every now and then. Nemesio bickers with her even as he drives to a variety of retail stores. Red traffic lights, he'd turn to her and flick the lobe of her ears until she inevitably slapped his hand away. When he passes by yellow, the beginnings of yet another topic unravels between the two of them, but when the lights flicker to green, a new argument automatically festers between them, an amused smirk settled on both of their expressions absent-mindedly.

By three in the afternoon, they were an hour away from the location of Nicholas' apartment building, the meet-up place for tonight.

“I told you this store would be the one,” proudly, the female exclaims, her eyes scanning the products on the shelves. They were in a peculiar department store a little ways out of town. When they asked the woman in the entrance if they sold fireworks, she immediately beamed at them with a robotic grin, leading them to a secluded corner. True enough, there were fireworks shelved properly, a huge banner with the words “Clearance Sale” hanging from the ceiling.

As expected, the pair get into a heated argument about which type of firework they should get. Chiara told him to get the one with the dahlia lights, but he disagreed; fighting for the fireworks labeled with "chrysanthemum" on them, hastily proclaiming that they looked a million times better than her shitty preference. Ultimately, in the end, they call for a truce and buy two of each.

“Fireworks are fucking stupid, anyway, why is your sister asking you to get some?” Snide tone; she avoids meeting his stare. Nemesio shrugs, replying briefly. “Soulmate thing. I guess. I don't fucking know.”

“Couldn't be you,” she snickers lightly after that, earning a well-deserved glare from her friend. Nemesio grumbles something under his breath, but she doesn't hear him.

He was about to take a turn to head for the cashier, but he stops in his tracks when he sees Chiara venturing towards the endless scarves displayed on the rack. He cocks up a brow, soon tugging on the hem of her coat to grab her attention.

“The fuck are you doing?”

She flushes in place; elbowing his sides roughly. He doesn't budge—merely sending a glare her way for the nth time today already.

“I have to buy someone a gift. Fuck off. Go pay, or something, I'll catch up.”

He inches closer to her ear to whisper, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine. “Really, Chichi? You're buying someone a damn gift inside a sketchy department store?”

She nearly jumps away from him because of their abrupt closeness in proximity, turning her back at the male. “None of your business, fucking idiot. Go away!”

He doesn't. He even helps her pick out a scarf.

“Know your soulmate yet?” Questions Chiara, the edge of her tongue dripping with mock, as soon as the two of them are lining up to pay for the fireworks and the scarf. She knew how to press his buttons, and she's always done a magnificent job at doing so, much to his fucking delight. Nemesio clenches his jaw.

“Fucking hell; I swear to god, Chiara, I'm _this_ close to leaving you stranded here.” He breathes out. Chiara knew him well enough to know that his words rang empty for now, but if she provoked him further, he just might do exactly what he was saying. She's not scared—far from it.

“Be my fucking guest, Nemo, I'm sure your sorry ass will miss me anyway.”

“You're acting like you _want_ my sorry ass to miss you.”

“Fuck no. That's fucking disgusting. Fuck you.” Chiara takes a step forward, now being the next one in line. She pokes her tongue out, presenting him with a thumbs down, further emphasizing her distaste for his statement. He lets a cheeky grin spread throughout his lips.

“Is 'fuck' the only word you know?” He taunts her, rolling his eyes promptly afterwards. She twirls around carefully, her body facing his, a glint of judgment shining on her pupils. Nemesio tenses up—but only slightly. 

“How about you? Apart from the fact that you hate your soulmate with a _burning passion,_ what else do you know?”

Nemesio was close to snapping at her—but for the sake of public decency (not really), he downplays his resentment by rolling his eyes, and letting a breath of displeasure leave his lips.

“Bold of you to fucking assume I give a damn about my soulmate,”

“Hating your shitty soulmate isn't a personality trait, asshole.”

In sync, the both of them pause their argument when they're in front of the counter, exchanging civil pleasantries with the employee. They compile their money once all is scanned and packed, Nemesio taking hold of the paper bag with firecrackers, and Chiara hastily grabbing the one with a scarf inside.

When they're out of earshot, Nemesio picks up from where they left off.

“I distinctly remember you agreeing with me about this whole soulmate shit. Changed your mind?”

“I may sympathize with you, but that doesn't mean I'm as fucking heartless. Besides, why the fuck do you care?” 

He nearly freezes at her question—but she was far too disgruntled to notice the slight waver in his general composition.

“I don't. Neither should you. Lay off my back already. Stop pestering me about my damn soulmate.”

He wouldn't care if he found his soulmate, he wouldn't care if he didn't, shit like that never mattered to him before—and as far as he was concerned, Chiara didn't seem to care about that either, but her expression today was yielding; dreadful, even, with subtle hints of frustration that he'd come into terms with a half hour ago. It bothered her that he didn't care.

When she raises her head to glare at him, he finds himself looking away.

“You're fucking annoying.”

 _Irrelevant._ Her statement was irrelevant to him, completely unnecessary, because it was weaker than most of the insults she had thrown at him in the past.

“Does it look like I give a shit, Chiara?”

It was like that often when they were together. At one point, words no longer seemed like words, perhaps because they've utilized it to hurt the other a handful of times already—half-meant, intentional, a slip-up; over time, it slowly lost its value, it slowly didn't matter. Words were just words for Chiara, just rambles of whatever comes to mind, but they've always been something to Nemesio—but maybe that's because he used it to steer people away, always, always making sure that whatever he says pierces the recipient until they bled. He spoke the language of anger fervently; often wielding it like a sword, occasionally a shield—and she, who was burdened with the lifelong skill of understanding him, was forced to take the blows as they were, the aching, the pain, and whenever she was finally able to pick up what's left of her being, she delivered her response with even sharper stabs, until the both of them could only take a step back as an attempt to avoid getting deeper cuts.

Then, at the end of their encounter, they'll part ways. When all wounds are healed, when all scars are wrapped up in bandages, they'll traverse in the anguish until their words are finally coherent again.

Somewhere along the way, it stopped hurting when he spoke. Chiara doesn't remember when. She doesn't want to remember when.

He was the only one talking on their way back to the car. Silence clings onto the atmosphere. Unsurprisingly, Nemesio liked quiet—but it didn't sit well with him when she was.

* * *

_“Surprise!”_

Nemesio almost died when he was trying to stifle his laughter upon seeing the color from Nicholas' face get drained away; his hands raised defensively in front of him, his bags of groceries falling down on his carpeted floor with a low thump. Chesa was ecstatic, however, and that seemed to be enough to urge Nicholas to recompose himself, reluctantly returning her embrace when she tackled him.

It surprised most of them—mainly Nicholas' siblings and Zao, as Raina was more amused than she was baffled—whenever he and Chesa talked casually.

Nemesio may not like Nicholas, but he was glad, somewhat, that Chesa was okay with him.

The evening was filled with light teasing and banters; popping of champagne bottles, exchanging of jokes, whole-hearted smiles. The most entertaining part of the event was when it was finally time for Nicholas to open his presents; everyone got a kick out of that one. While most of the gifts were as normal as they could be, there were a few of them that made almost everyone fall on the floor laughing. Alfred's, in particular, was a custom-made tapestry with Nicholas' face edited on a greek statue. Nemesio didn't like Alfred for obvious reasons, but seeing that wall-hanging extracted a snort from Nemo.

By the time everyone was done eating, Chesa dragged all of them to the rooftop of the building, flaunting the lined up fireworks on the edge of the rails.

He distances himself from the crowd, opting to stay behind all of them. Wordlessly, Chiara follows him to the back, standing beside the male idly; still holding onto the paper bag with the scarf inside with her left hand.

“Are you going to hitch a ride home with us again?” He buttons the upper part of his coat, tightening the scarf around his neck moments after. Snow riddles his hair—he lets it be.

“No. I'm riding with Raina and the others tonight.”

“Thank the fucking gods.”

She directs a fond glare at him—but he couldn't wrap his head around it.

“Shut up.”

Nemesio rubs his hands together for warmth, lamenting over his winter gloves that he left inside his room at home. The comforting thought of being able to sleep and rest thrills him to the bone, trying to erase the coldness that crept up his fingertips.

When his hands fall to his sides, he feels the warmth of Chiara's gloves seclude his own.

He winces.

“The fuck do you think you're doing?”

“Your hands are shaking, idiot, I'm trying to help.” Her eyes are turned to the sky; for a moment, he sees her cheeks flare up with red, but he decidedly ignores it.

“You just want an excuse to hold my hand.” With his signature eye roll, he huffs at her pathetic reasoning, soon copying her action and raising his head to wait for the lights to appear enticingly on the sky.

“Fuck—you know what? Fine. Freeze to death.”

He squeezes her hand when she tries to pull away; that alone was enough to leave her bitterly awe-struck.

The two of them bask in the tension—hand in hand, watching Mainio and Raimonds light up each of the fuse in front of the group. Soon, the whistles of the fireworks reverberate in their eardrums, traversing up to the sky with sparks trailing their path.

Nemesio takes a minute to stare at their entwined fingers—the wind rises, then it blows past them, and when the ends of Chiara's sleeves sway along with the breeze, he catches a glimpse of the three, dark lines on her wrist, a pang of bitterness engulfing his system; gradually worsening when he catches sight of the one mark on _his_ wrist.

Despite the explosions, the silence felt deafening.

“I met my soulmate at the train station last week.”

There's restraint in her voice—but no anger this time. He blinks in surprise.

Their peers applaud and cheer at the sight of the fireworks; beaming grins on each and every one of their faces. But Nemesio is rendered silent, for the first time in his life, when Chiara finishes talking; eyes glued to the floor, almost appearing to be struck by something unfamiliar—disappointment, dejection, maybe that. He's never seen her like this. It wasn't supposed to matter to him.

“We're going out for lunch tomorrow.”

Nemesio's scoff dies down in his throat.

His grip on her hand tightens. She cherishes the momentary warmth. The scarf she bought—the soulmate crap she kept asking earlier. By now, his eyes are gleaming with an emotion he couldn't ascertain, pale lips twisting to form a bitter scowl; she doesn't miss the way his shoulders tense up, but she doesn't bring the detail to light.

His words were said in loud volumes of something she couldn't comprehend.

“When have I ever _cared,_ ” he tugs her closer as he whispers. His words are empty, for once in his life; yet this is the only time she doesn't understand why, “About things like that?”

The fireworks burned the sky with vigor, shouting, pounding, its lights bouncing off of the shiny tiles of the roof. Nemesio sees the faint reflection of the fireworks even with the piles of snow covering the surface; intently focusing on that, up until the cheers of his companions toned down into nothingness.

He lets his chest heave up and down steadily.

Whatever the remains are of the memories of his soulmate, they disappear, until the only thing he could remember vividly was the feeling of her hand slipping away from his. Midwinter nights were naturally cold, he reassured himself, refusing to acknowledge that Chiara's absence in the coming weeks was the reason why it felt colder than usual.


End file.
